


Backdrifting

by Violet_Jones



Series: Backdrifting [1]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, M/M, Post-3x03, Post-Early S3, Pre-3x06, Reunions, Second Chances, Talking, lots of talking, the longest sex scene of all time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:32:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6980716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey & Ian run into each other on the street and reconnect about 9-10 years after Ian left Chicago as a teenager to attend college out of state. Mickey went back to jail before Ian graduated high school, and proceeded to move to New York with Mandy when he got out. Adult Ian & Mickey decide to go for drinks and end up spending all night together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Shameless fic ever. Late to the dying party, as usual. The prologue is a tiny bit melancholy since there are some echoes of later show cannon in there, but it gets pretty damn light-hearted after that. Also a disclaimer that I have read almost zero post-S5/S6 fic thus far, so any resemblance of this admittedly simple-ass storyline to other reunion type fics that may be floating around is purely unintentional and coincidental. The post-early-season-3 divergence in my headcanon is that everything up to Mickey getting jealous and beating up Ned Lishman did happen, but he never got shot in the ass by the guy's wife in the B & E, and he never got around to kissing Ian either. He most definitely didn't get caught with Ian by Terry. Svetlana & Yevgeny don't exist. However, Mandy and Fiona do know about I&M. Just go with that one, it was a bit of a timeline screw-up on my part. I had forgotten Lip was the only sibling who knew about them up to the point where I separated from the show storyline. I'll explain it in later planned installments. Basically, Ian & Mickey fucked around off and on for just shy of two years, but a whole year of that time (4 months the first time, and 8 months the second time) was spent with Mickey in juvie. They're about 26/28 years old now (in present day chapters). Prologue will reveal the rest. Titles taken from Radiohead songs "Backdrifts" and "All I Need." Please enjoy!

Ian Gallagher was 17 years old the last time he’d seen Mickey Milkovich. It wasn’t something that he’d planned for, but in retrospect it was something that he should’ve seen coming. It hadn’t been that interesting of a final encounter. They hadn’t even had sex or anything. They were in public, at a really lame impromptu backyard party in the neighborhood the night before Halloween, and there wasn’t really a way to sneak off without drawing attention to themselves. Mickey hadn’t even said goodbye when he’d left. And then a couple days later, he’d gone and done some other stupid fucking illegal shit to get himself hauled off to big boy jail for the first time. He was on the cusp of his 19th birthday, and this time he was gonna be away for more than four to eight months. He might even be away for two years or longer.

That was the moment Ian was forced to finally give up the Mickey dream. He absolutely had to pull it together, put himself first, get over it, and get out of the fucking South Side once and for all. In fact, the forced removal of Mickey from his life once again had acted as a helpful catalyst for Ian. They’d spent the better part of nearly two years in some tenuous fuck-buddy cycle, during which Mickey had been behind bars for more than half of that time anyway, and it wasn’t enough for Ian anymore. Well, it had never really been enough for Ian, but the hope he’d held that it could get better, that he could somehow _make_ it better by sheer force of will, all got washed away when that third round of Mickey in the clink happened.

Ian had started applying to some colleges, all of them out of state. He’d decided to say fuck it to his future financial stability, take out student loans, and just try to get far away from where he was, because he’d started to feel like he was suffocating. He had to remove himself from the South Side equation.

He hadn’t ended up staying at UT the full four years, but he had stayed in Austin for more than six. He’d met a lot of people and had a lot of fun. It was a young town and there was always something to do. He didn’t even have to have a lot of money.

He’d gotten a go-go boy job at a gay club in the Warehouse District and he’d done pretty well for himself, eventually moving up to bartender and making fucking amazing tips. It was an easy way to meet guys too, and he’d quickly grown out of his ‘fuck-me-daddy’ phase in favor of sampling the troves of hot young hipster dudes that were so plentiful throughout the city.

He’d felt liberated there. In fucking Texas of all places. The city was so youthful and progressive, and no one batted an eye at so-called ‘alternative lifestyles.’ He’d started to feel more and more comfortable in his own skin, and he knew it was thanks to his surroundings.

He hadn’t been able to make it back to Chicago for Christmas or Spring Break that first year, as money was so tight in the beginning, but he did go back for the summer, and holed up in Casa de Gallagher, savoring his time with his siblings. Lip had even stuck around, instead of pissing off somewhere exotic with his filthy rich, batshit crazy girlfriend. It had been a nice homecoming.

A couple weeks into his stay he’d started to wonder why he hadn’t run into any Milkoviches. If not Mickey, he’d expected Mandy to hear about his presence through the grapevine and seek him out for some hang time, but it had never happened. They’d lost touch since he’d left, mostly because Ian had felt guilty about leaving Mandy behind. He’d wanted to scheme a way to bring her with him, but he’d known she wouldn’t leave Mickey rotting in jail alone. He was sure she was the only one who visited him regularly. Ian had thought hard about going to see him a few times before he’d skipped town, but he just couldn’t bring himself to re-open the wound. He didn’t want some pesky flood of emotion to hamper his drive to get gone.

He’d finally gathered the courage to ask Lip and Fiona about it one night after dinner. Their younger siblings had been upstairs, and the three of them were sitting around drinking beer (Ian would only drink that fancy shit anymore, and kept their refrigerator stocked thusly).

“So. . . has anyone heard from Mandy?” He paused, casting a downward glance at the floor, “Or Mickey?”

Fiona and Lip had exchanged a blatant look at the inquiry, but neither had opened their mouths to respond, just shot him weary, surprised glances.

“What?” he fretted nervously, darting his eyes back and forth between them. “Did something happen?”

“Well. . .” Fiona began, “nothin’ bad, sweetface. Mickey got out a few months back. He’s fine as far as I know, but. . . he and Mandy did sort of move away.”

“Move away?” he asked, taken aback. He had not been expecting that. “Why? Where?”

“New York,” Lip chimed in. “Don’t really know why. Terry’s in jail again. The other douchebag brothers are still dickin’ around, doin’ their petty crime bullshit.”

“New York,” Ian repeated, somewhat absentmindedly, and sort of hummed like he was trying to picture it. “Okay then. I guess that’s good. They got out.” He paused again. “They deserve it.”

Lip snorted, “Don’t know about ‘they,’ but you’re definitely right about Mandy, at least.”

“Fuck off, Lip. You never really knew Mickey. He wasn’t always an asshole.”

“Uh huh, whatever you say, brother. He never fucked me up the ass either, but I still know his dick isn’t worth whatever he put you through.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Who ever said _he_ put the dick in _my_ ass?”

Lip’s eyes had gone wide at that, his beer bottle pausing halfway to his gaping mouth, and he’d exchanged another look with Fiona, whose eyes were also bugging.

“Mickey Milkovich is a _bottom_?” Fiona gasped.

Ian just took a swig of his beer and shrugged, a smirk sliding onto his face.

“Holy shit!” Lip exclaimed. “That kind of fucks with my whole worldview for some reason.”

“Oh, but it was totally fine and normal for you to picture _me_ taking it from him?” Ian inquired.

“Oh my god,” Fiona droned. “I can’t believe my baby brother fucked Mickey Milkovich in the ass. . . repeatedly. I need to bleach my brain.”

Ian just shook his head, chuckling. Then he’d suddenly had a wave of nostalgia engulf him when he thought about Mickey’s perfect, meaty, milky-white ass, and accidentally sighed loudly and wistfully.

“Ew,” Fiona said, scrunching up her face, as Lip simultaneously uttered, “Gross!” and they’d gotten up abruptly and walked away from the table in different directions.

Ian had let himself feel a twinge of regret at not being able to see Mickey while he was in town. . . Not being able to put any of his lingering thoughts about him to rest. He wondered if he’d ever see him again, or if it was all now ancient history that would remain buried in the rubble of the past forever.

Eventually he shook it off.

The next summer had been a lot easier. The one after that was no trouble at all.

 

* * *

 

Mickey Milkovich was 18 years old the last time he’d seen Ian Gallagher’s stupid face. He’d had no idea it was going to be his last time seeing him. If he had, honestly, he would’ve bitten the fucking bullet and hauled him off somewhere private for a nice, long fuckfest. They would’ve gone out with a bang, or down in flames, or something equally explosive and deliciously destructive. Instead, he’d barely even said two sentences to Ian all night, mostly just stealing discreet glances at him from afar when the other boy wasn’t paying attention, and ignoring his existence when he was. Mickey had been a fucking epic dumbass when he was that age, and his qualities as such were particularly on display when he got around Ian fucking Gallagher.

Not two days later, he’d gotten pinched for some light B & E, and he’d had an unregistered firearm on him, and he was almost 19 at that point, with a juvenile record as long as his fucking arm, so they threw the book at him a tiny bit. He was gonna be a guest in Iron City for at least a year and a half, maybe two and change.

He’d known then that whatever he had going on with Gallagher was done. Yeah, it kind of fucked him up somewhat not to get to see what could maybe have happened between them down the line, but he also knew himself well enough to know that Ian was better off not having ever found that out. Mickey couldn’t kid himself it would have ended well, and he was sure it would’ve hurt Ian’s ginger ass more than it ever would’ve hurt Mickey himself. That’s not to say he didn’t think about him a lot over the 18 months he’d ended up on the inside, because really it’s not like there was a whole lot else to occupy his mind. He’d stored a lot memories of Ian and his monster cock in his spank bank too, and that came in handy in more ways than one.

He hadn’t been surprised that Ian had moved out of Chicago some months before Mickey got out. Mandy had kept him vaguely informed, even though she mostly hesitated to bring up anything Ian-related, like she was afraid of how Mickey would react to the very idea of Ian’s continued existence outside of the walls surrounding her brother on all sides. Ian had never come to visit that time around, and Mickey was actually grateful. It made the whole break, if you could call it that, very clean and it hadn’t gotten his hopes up that maybe he was being awaited with bated breath. That was an illusion he didn’t need feeding his imagination.

Still, Mickey couldn’t help but feel a slight pang when he’d finally walked out of the prison gate with the sun shining on his face, tasting freedom for the first time in what felt like a small eternity, and seen only Mandy standing there clapping her hands, and hopping around excitedly.

Things had started looking up for him after that, though.

A couple weeks after Mickey had been released, his shit-for-brains asshole of a father had been busted for aggravated assault, with the possibility of an attempted murder charge hanging over his head, after beating some guy’s ass a little too hard with a blunt weapon in public. On top of that, he’d been violating probation, so he was looking at a long-ass stretch, and he would be out of Mickey’s fucking life and very awareness for a long time coming. It had granted Mickey an overwhelming sense of relief and he’d felt like he could finally breathe easy for the first time in years.

Shortly thereafter, he’d hit another jackpot of sorts via Mandy. She’d managed to fall in with some North Side hipsters while Mickey was away. He still didn’t exactly get how it had happened, but it turned out that they had some rich-fuck parents that were ‘investing in their futures,’ and basically fronting them the money to start a microbrewery in expensive-ass Brooklyn of all places. Some way, somehow Mandy had succeeded in wrangling them both jobs if they could just get themselves there, and were willing to learn the trade. Mickey wasn’t sure how many dicks she’d had to suck well enough for them to want to take a chance on Mickey of all people, fresh from the goddamn slammer with no credentials to speak of, but again, he hadn’t asked too many questions.

He’d gotten a decent parole officer who seemed to see the hidden potential inside of him or some shit, and he’d been given permission to move out of Chicago and transfer his supervision to New York state. He’d decided he was going completely legal and legit, at least for the foreseeable future.

Finding an affordable place to live had not been easy, and Mickey couldn’t make it out of state before his transfer approval, so Mandy had gone ahead and done all the legwork. Mickey would just have gone along with whatever she wanted anyway.

Their place was fucking tiny for one person, and with the two of them it was annoyingly claustrophobic, but Mandy ended up spending most nights with her high-end, beardy boyfriend, and Mickey was out most of the time anyway, not to mention unfortunately accustomed to confined spaces. It worked.

Mickey had been sitting around after a shift, having a beer, some months later when he’d realized that he was downright fucking content with his current trajectory. The transition to Brooklyn and a completely different and new life had been startlingly smooth, and he’d found he didn’t really have anything to complain about. He was making a decent living, keeping his nose clean, and fucking randos on the reg. What’s more, he didn’t even have to hide it anymore. He’d actually just told people outright that he was gay, and didn’t worry about the repercussions, because no one had seemed to give two shits one way or the other.

Mickey felt fucking free.

They didn’t even visit Chicago. It was in the rear view, and there was no point in looking back. Iggy would hop a bus or a train every once in a while, and crash with them for weeks at a time. The rest of their idiot brother contingent had open invitations to come through. Other than that, what else was there to miss?

Mandy and Mickey had been sitting at a corner table, having their after-work ales, laughing about some dumb bullshit from high school when Ian’s name had come up for the first time in about a year. Mandy had been describing his hilarious reaction to some farcical hood situation, and hadn’t actually realized who she was talking about until after she was finished with the story. Her laughter kind of petered out, and she gave Mickey a sobering sort of look.

“Shit, sorry. . .” she trailed off.

He snorted. “For what? Mentioning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Ian’s not fuckin’ Voldemort, you can say his goddamn name.”

“Okay, when did you fucking watch Harry Potter, of all things?”

“Who says I watched it? Maybe I read the books,” Mickey said, trying to keep a straight face.

“Fuck you!” Mandy laughed. “I know you picked up quite the reading habit in the pokey, but there’s no way you went down the kiddie wizarding well!”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” he shrugged. “But I think you missed the entire point of what I just said.”

“Okay, so you don’t miss Ian?” Mandy asked point blank. “Because _I_ miss Ian.”

“I mean, what’s to miss? We were never really _together_ together. We had some times in between me fucking up royally, and then we went our separate ways. Ain’t a fuckin’ love story for the ages or anything. I’m okay with it.”

“Mmhmm,” she said. “Just one boyfriend in the long string of invisible boyfriends you’ve accrued over the years.”

“Whatever,” Mickey rolled his eyes, sipping his beer, “so I’m not really into the whole fuckin’ relationship thing, sue me. Has fuck all to do with Firecrotch. I get laid plenty, and I don’t need to sit down to dinner first to get there. I’m sure it’s another obstacle I’ll overcome one day, but that day ain’t today, and I’m fuckin’ fine with that.”

“You’re more than fine, Mick. You’re fuckin’ happy! We both are. Finally!”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. We seem to be doing okay. Why fuck with that?”

She smiled at him again, needling him with a finger poking in his side as her eyes softened, “You do miss him just a little bit, though, right? I know there’s a part of you that does.”

He sighed audibly and gave in. “Maybe. But what the hell does it matter now? He’s in fuckin’ Texas, startin’ fresh just like us. He deserves it. I’m good with it. I have to be. Me and him. . . we never woulda worked out. Trust me.”

Eventually, the memory of Ian had all but faded away, stored somewhere in the recesses of Mickey’s subconscious, mostly only resurfacing in the occasional abstract dream that flitted away upon waking.


	2. The Next Act

Ian’s been back in Chicago for a few years when it happens. It’s been nearly a decade since he’s last laid eyes on Mickey, and in his wildest dreams, he never even remotely imagined he’d see hide nor hair of the guy again in a million years.

Mickey’s been back in Chicago a little over a year when he’s walking down the street downtown, like he does pretty much every day, and looks up to see a passing mop of red hair and a big ass smile in mid-conversation with a small group of people. Something in his brain jolts him into recognition and he reflexively turns around and calls out, “Ian!”

Ian stops and turns around abruptly, stumbling forward with a laugh still on his lips, and an inquisitive, “Yeah?” His eyes go almost impossibly wide at the sight of Mickey before him. “What the fuck! _Mickey_?”

“In the fuckin’ flesh, Firecrotch,” Mickey smiles genuinely. “Never thought I’d see your tall, pale ass again.”

“No shit,” Ian snorts, before stammering, “I. . . I. . . don’t even know what to say. How the hell are you? Where have you been hiding?”

“Been back a year and some change now. Co-own a business near here. Headed there now, actually. What about you?”

“Wow. Business owner, huh? That’s awesome,” Ian replies, looking back at his friends who’d been peering over at them curiously. He turns back to Mickey, explaining, “We were just gonna go check out some new gay club a few blocks away, but. . .” he trails off momentarily, mulling something over in his head, “do you wanna maybe get a drink and catch up? If you don’t have to get to work immediately, I mean.”

“Yeah, man. My business is actually bar-related. Come with me. It’ll be cheap.”

“Sweet,” he replies, turning back to his friends. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he waves them away casually, and they collectively utter their goodbyes, leaving Ian and Mickey on the sidewalk, less than ten feet apart from one another, eyes appraising and drinking in appearances, the signs of aging having altered both their faces ever so slightly.

Ian is wearing a slim pair of dark jeans cuffed at the bottom, with black Chucks and a tight black leather jacket over a green plaid button down. His hair is long, but still short on the sides and in the back, the longer strands slicked back against the top of his head. Mickey is clad in a clingy, soft-looking, black, long-sleeve shirt that seems to slink around with his movements, and jeans more form-fitting than he ever wore in his youth, with bulky black boots covering them over his ankles. His hair was actually cut similarly to Ian’s which was an amusing aside that flashed briefly through both their minds upon inspection. Somehow they also each ended up with their hands in their pants pockets, a seemingly nervous, slightly protective gesture. It was fast becoming a strange sort of stand-off.

“You look good,” Mickey smiles again.

“Thanks,” Ian responds bashfully. “So do you. Really good.” His own smile gets brighter.

“So. . .” Mickey continues awkwardly, “shall we?” He shuffles toward Ian, and they fall in step beside each other.

They walk in stilted silence for a while, and jump away from one another comically when their arms accidentally brush together. They finally reach their destination, and Ian is slightly astounded at the modern, elegant look of the place. He was expecting something more like a dive bar, but this was an actual craft brewery.

“This is so surreal,” Ian says with a smirk, once they’re seated at a table near the bar, free beers in front of them. “I mean, what are the chances?”

Mickey shrugs, grinning back, and taking a swallow of his IPA. “Dunno, but maybe it’s not really that weird since we live in the same fuckin’ city again. It’s a small world and shit happens.”

“I guess, but it still feels pretty weird.”

“How long you been back?” Mickey asks.

“‘Bout three years. . . a little more. Stayed in Austin a long time. It was nice. Still kind of miss it sometimes.”

“Why’d you come back then?”

Ian sits back in his chair, threading a hand through the long-ish strands of his hair. “Sort of floundered and went through a rough time after a bad breakup. Kind of leveled me for a while, and I missed my family. Decided I should probly come back for a while and spend some quality time getting to know everyone again before they all scatter to the winds and I lose them completely. I didn’t visit enough after the first few years I was gone.”

Mickey nods. “Seeing anyone now?” he tosses out ultra-casually.

“Not really,” Ian says, fidgeting with his glass, twisting it around on the table and looking at it intently. “You?”

“Not really,”mimics Mickey.

Ian looks up at him and they both grin as their eyes meet. He shakes his head with a small laugh, “Good to know, I guess.”

“Mmm,” agrees Mickey, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Ian looks around the bar again. “I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s classy and shit.”

“Yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “Most of that has nothing to do with me. Mandy had a lot more input, and some of the other partners. I’ve never really been into interior design myself.”

“Yeah? So Mandy’s back too? And a part of all this?” Ian gestures around.

“Yeah, man. She’s the one that got me hooked up with these dudes to begin with. We got jobs at a microbrewery upstart in Brooklyn back in the day. I learned all kinds of shit. How to brew, co-op culture, fuckin’ business etiquette, liquor license law. . . Started out at the bottom and worked my way up. Then they decided maybe it was time to expand. Started with Chicago. Seemed like a perfect opportunity for us to get in on something good and see if we had it in us to make it back home, maybe on the right side of the tracks.”

“That’s really great, Mickey. I’m happy for you guys,” Ian says sincerely. “I always regretted not staying in touch with Mandy. Didn’t do it on purpose, but I guess it just happened. How is she otherwise?”

“Good. Everything is pretty damn good all around.” He gives a small laugh, shaking his head a bit. “She’s become sort of uptown now. Not like rich bitch, I mean she’s still fuckin’ crazy and everything, but just kind of softer and more poised or something.”

Ian laughs, “Damn. Sounds like I’ve missed a fuckin’ lot.”

“Ten years’ll fuckin’ do that, Gallagher. She’d be pleased as punch to see your ginger ass, though. You should call her up.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he answers. “But maybe I should take this one Milkovich reunion at a time for now. I may get overwhelmed with reminiscences of yesteryear.”

“You’re still pretty ridiculous, aren’t you?” Mickey teases. “The fuck are you doin’ with yourself these days, anyway?”

“Advertising. Not anything really cool like graphic design, but I basically approve copy and act as a liaison between touchy artists and demanding clients.”

“A _liaison_ , huh? Sounds easy.”

“Pfft, you couldn’t do it,” Ian retorts. “I don’t have to reacquaint myself with grown-up you too much to know that.”

“You wound me, Gallagher,” Mickey jokes, clutching at his chest. “People love me. They find me oddly charming.”

Ian laughs, “Yeah, I suppose I always kind of thought so. Though your fucking tough guy exterior seems to have melted away quite a bit, if what I’m seeing tonight is any indication.”

“You sayin’ I’ve gone soft?” Mickey asks in a challenging tone, going slightly high-pitched towards the end, raising his expressive eyebrows in a familiar way that takes Ian back.

“Hey,” Ian says, “nothing wrong with that. At this point in my life, I tend to see that as a good thing. It’s much better than seeing you get thrown in jail every five goddamn minutes.” He smirks, but there’s a shade of melancholy in it, like he’s still sort of resentful that they’d been repeatedly interrupted in their fucked up version of courtship so long ago.

Mickey groans. “Yeah, I guess I was constantly doin' my worst when I knew you. I should be surprised you even remember me. I think I spent more time in juvie than out during that couple years we were. . . whatever.”

Ian sighs. “Yeah, well. . . When you’re young, that kind of relationship can have a big impact, even if it was really just the blink of an eye in retrospect. I always considered you important to me, I guess, even though maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Hmm, probly not,” Mickey agrees. “Maybe I thought about you a little bit too, at first. Not much to do in jail anyway.”

Ian arches an eyebrow. “Oh, so you were pining? In secret?”

“I don’t know if I’d put it that way, but I suppose I did wonder. Maybe there was also some intense fantasizing.”

“Yeah?” he says, his brow still quirked, but he’s grinning bigger now. “I guess that’s acceptable. I’m pretty sure I jerked off thinking about your pristine ass at least once or twice around that time.”

“Just once or twice?” Mickey asks, like he knows that’s a paltry lie, but he’s grinning widely too.

“A few times at the most.”

“Mmhmm, of course. Just a scoach.”

Ian laughs fully at that. “A smidge, really.”

Their conversation keeps rolling in the same easy manner they so comfortably settled into, and the minutes tick away, becoming hours. The two of them barely even notice, as they throw back pint after pint.

Ian is more than a little enraptured by Mickey’s newfound lightness of being. He’s not a totally different person or anything, except that he kind of is. He’s changed so much that it’s kind of making Ian’s heart swell. It's like finally getting the truth about a secret he’d suspected long ago confirmed at last. There had been hidden depth in Mickey Milkovich all along, and he’d managed to dig it out of himself somewhere along the way and put it out on full display. Ian felt relieved that this new and improved, confident-as-hell Mickey wasn’t shacked up with some dreamboat hipster asshole. He probably got his fill of that kind of dick around these parts, especially working in this upscale pub environment that they tended to swarm around like flies. Ian hadn’t ever even run into him in Boystown, looking for a casual hook-up, although he supposes he himself didn’t exactly hang out there much these days anyway. Maybe Mickey was still commitment-phobic after all this time. He didn’t really seem it though. Maybe he just liked being single.

Mickey is definitely feeling taken with Ian all over again, and it should surprise him, but it doesn’t. It makes perfect sense now that he’s thinking about it. In the grand scheme of his sum total of time on Earth so far, Ian had barely even qualified as a guest appearance in Mickey’s life, and yet there was something so familiar and real about the way he felt when they were together. He wasn’t that fuckhead kid who had to swallow it down and bury it anymore. He could just be open with Ian. Show him that this is who he was now, and probably had always been, but was never allowed to let loose in that brief amount of time Ian had been a part of his life. ‘Don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone,’ and all that bullshit. And Ian seems open and receptive to everything Mickey is throwing at him. He’s making it fucking easy, and Mickey is grateful that this hasn’t turned into some angst-ridden bitch fight, and instead taken a sharp, welcome turn from pleasant to flirty. Mickey has without a doubt _never_ considered himself good at flirting, but it’s starting to pour out of him naturally now that he’s beginning to feel a tad inebriated.

There’s no residual anger between them, perhaps because they never actually promised each other anything. There’s no semblance of broken vows or dashed plans. Nothing like that had ever even seemed like a possibility when they were kids. That wasn’t how they saw one another. Not even Ian could really have expected to have any future with Mickey. Maybe he’d indulged in the occasional flights of fancy, and hell, maybe Mickey had too, just a little, when he was jailed and lonely at 19, and Ian was pretty much all he knew of sex with any small degree of affinity that could have maybe led to the tiniest inkling of emotional attachment. But any hard feelings had just somehow ceased to exist somewhere along the way, leaving no real tangible resentment for trying to just go on with their lives. They didn’t owe each other anything. That was the truth.

Mickey looks up to see Ian eyeing him hesitantly, as if he’s on the verge of saying something he isn’t quite sure he really wants to say.

“What?” Mickey finally queries, quirking an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Ian responds, rubbing his forearms with his hands anxiously whilst shaking his head. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Spit it out,” goads Mickey.

Ian takes a deep breath and seems to find his liquid courage, before exhaling loudly, “I was kind of in love with you back in high school.”

Mickey almost chokes on his beer, but manages to gulp his mouthful down with a painful sting in his throat. He blinks at Ian a few times before grunting, “Huh?”

Ian gives into the absurdity of making such a pronouncement at such a time, and chuckles, but continues throwing caution to the wind. “I know it’s stupid. You were so. . . skittish about everything, and you were always acting like a dick. . . even though you totally got all jealous when other guys were around me, but whatever. I was just. . . I didn’t know anything and you were a challenge, and I was just helpless about it really. I was as in love as you can be at that age, I guess. Just blindly infatuated? I don’t know. Just seemed like I should confess that right here, right now, since I can get it off my chest, seemingly without repercussion. I mean. . . I guess that’s an assumption on my part, but––”

“Gallagher!” Mickey interjects and Ian’s eyes snap up from the table he was now fixing on after he had cast his eyes around at everything but the man sitting in front of him. “You’re rambling like a drunk weirdo,” Mickey says with a pregnant pause. “Like a Frank.”

Ian laughs with an emphasized hiccup, “Oh god! Don’t ever say that to me again.”

“Then we may need to sober you up a bit. I think we’re done here. Let me close out.”

“I thought you said it was free?” Ian asks, bordering on shrill.

“It is, man, but I gotta tip well and all that. Keep strict account of what we’ve been poured. I do shit proper,” Mickey grins.

“‘Kay. Here, let me throw in for the tip,” Ian says, reaching for his wallet.

“Nah, I got it.”

Mickey walks over to the bar before Ian can protest, so he sits back and watches him interact with the girl behind the counter, internally berating himself for making things weird for no reason. He has no idea why he suddenly blurted out old-ass feelings to his long lost not-really-ex-boyfriend. He could only blame the high alcohol content of the beer consumed and his own weak tolerance levels. He realizes he needs to drink a lot of water and eat some kind of giant greasy sandwich if he’s going to salvage the night. He already knows he doesn’t want to leave Mickey alone. Doesn’t want to go back to find his friends. Doesn’t want to go home alone. He feels like if he did anything other than stay right by Mickey’s side, he wouldn’t see him again for another ten fucking years. That clearly couldn’t happen. And he was not about to endure any awkward follow-up ‘let’s continue reconnecting for some reason’ phone calls that never panned out into actual hanging out. Ian had to make it happen tonight, or it was just going to drift away. . . this opportunity that was presenting itself. . . the possibility of getting Mickey for real. Because _of course_ he’s always kinda wondered what that would be like.

Mickey doesn’t seem too fazed by Ian’s slip-up, though. “‘Ey,” he says raising his chin to Ian as he approaches the table. “Buy me breakfast?”

Ian grins. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey steers them towards a late-night diner a few blocks away from his bar, and they manage to snag one of the vinyl booths lining the wall, despite it being peak drunk hour on a Friday night, rapidly fading into morning.

Ian requests to order the greasiest sandwich they have that isn’t a burger, which the waiter informs him is a patty melt with fried egg, much to his disgusting delight. Mickey curls his lip and wrinkles his nose, ordering eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns.

“How is your order like any different from mine, and yet you sneer at me?” Ian scoffs, shaking his head.

“Similar components, atrocious setup. Plus, pork trumps beef all day.”

Ian’s smile widens, “I’m biting my tongue so hard. So many terrible jokes just floating out there in the ether.”

“Ha ha,” Mickey deadpans.

Ian gulps down the giant water in front of him, making a satisfied “aahhh” sound reserved for when desperate thirst gets quenched. “Fuck, I needed that. I’m so fucking hungry.”

“Calm your tits, Firecrotch, won’t be long now.”

A moment of silence settles over the table until Ian decides to break it without really knowing how. The classic, “So. . . . . .”

“So. . .” echoes Mickey.

“What ever happened to the rest of the Milkovich brood? They still South Side?” Ian randomly asks.

Mickey’s pretty sure Ian’s exchanged about three words total with all his brothers combined, and he damn sure doesn’t give a flying fuck about his psycho father.

“Really? That’s what your gonna go with right now?” Mickey chuckles. “Since when did you ever give a shit about those assholes?”

“Just making polite conversation, Mick,” Ian shrugs.

“Christ, that’s what we’re reduced to all of a sudden? Polite conversation that interests neither party?”

“Answer the question, or don’t,” Ian sighs, “but ditch the meta commentary.”

“Iggy’s really the only one Mandy and I ever see anymore. Hasn’t changed much. There’s somethin' kind of comforting about that, for some reason,” he answers, his tongue involuntarily peaking out to poke at the corner of his mouth, a gesture Ian remembers well and a tic that apparently had never gone away. “Tony’s in jail, predictably, Jaime’s back at the house with Ig, and Joey’s got three fuckin’ kids with two baby mamas. And Terry. . . well, that motherfucker finally kicked the bucket a few years back, or so I heard. I was still in New York. Finally pissed off the wrong guy and got what was comin’ to him.”

Ian studies him for a moment, a slight smile on his face. “Now I get it,” he says cryptically.

“Get what?”

“Why you seem so much lighter, and I don’t know. . . freer. That dickhead is in the ground, and you never have to worry about him again. Must be liberating.”

Mickey inhales a sharp breath, feeling unnerved at the way Ian sometimes understands so much without Mickey having to really explain anything. “You psychoanalyzing me now?”

“Nah, just my rudimentary skills of deduction, dear Watson,” Ian intones mockingly.

“Your sense of humor is still corny as shit, Gallagher, ugh.”

“Whatever, you always liked my shitty jokes. I could tell. Underneath all the grumpiness, there was a giant goofball snoozing out the winter.”

“Okay, I’m changin' topics now, cuz this is dumb,” Mickey says. “So what did you mean earlier when you said you weren’t really seein' anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s not play the ‘what does everyone mean’ game. I asked if you were seein' anybody, and you said, ‘Not really.’ Ain't exactly a definitive answer, like maybe it’s not a complete no?”

Ian shrugs, “It’s what it sounds like, I guess. I’m not officially seeing anyone. I have certain. . . situations.”

“Certain situations?”

“Understandings? People I can call? Regulars? Fuck buddies? Whatever you wanna call it. Nothing serious. No promising prospects. No relationships. Hence, ‘Not really.’”

“Ah.”

“Ah? You responded the exact same thing back to me. I bet you have similar arrangements.”

“Dial-a-dicks? Nah, actually, not at the moment. I mostly just partake in single transactions. Keeps it simple.”

“Have you ever had like an actual boyfriend?”

“I don’t know that I would say ‘boyfriend,’ but there have been ongoing ‘arrangements,’ as you put it. Maybe a couple almosts that just flamed out before they got very far. So. . . no?”

“Why not?”

“Why no boyfriends? I dunno. Cuz no one can put up with my ass for long, I guess, or maybe I can’t put up with other people’s bullshit, or both. Just hasn’t happened. No big orchestrated reason behind it.”

“Maybe you’re a late bloomer.”

“Fuck you." Mickey flips him off.

They laugh.

“Sounds like you’ve been there a couple times, though,” Mickey states.

“A few,” confirms Ian.

“Yeah? Did you ever get domestic?”

“Once. Lasted almost three years. Longest I’ve ever been with anyone. Not a good ending, but the beginning was good. It was like one good year and one bad year, bookending the random year that transitioned the two extremes.”

“Or maybe you just see it as an easily divisible chunk of time in your mind at this point, but in reality it wasn’t so cut and dry.”

“Yeah, you’re probly right, but whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Never talked to him again?”

“Nope, not after everything was settled. It wasn’t really amicable in the end. He basically left me for someone else, so. . .I wasn’t exactly angling to stay besties forever.”

“Damn, that’s cold. And it also perfectly illustrates why I haven’t done that shit. People suck, man.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just never do anything substantial because people suck, or because it might end badly. Everything’s a risk you either take or you don’t. I just picked a shitty person that time. Doesn’t mean I will next time.”

Their food arrives and they begin digging in greedily, with Ian being particularly aggressive with his nasty sandwich. He “mmms” and “ahhhs” over it though, and Mickey gets irrationally annoyed at how hot it is to hear him make those sounds, and see his huge mouth taking ginormous bites, his cheeks bulging out like a fucking chipmunk.

“You’re so gross,” Mickey says with a grin, and it sounds unexpectedly affectionate.

“Leave me alone,” Ian says, mouth still full. “I’m eating away the drunks.”

Mickey laughs and shakes his head, and they stay mostly quiet until they’re done scarfing down their meal.

“So. . . about what I said earlier. . .” Ian begins uncertainly, once his plate is empty of all edible remnants.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain,” Mickey says in an attempt to shut him down, knowing exactly what Ian’s trying to bring up from before. He doesn’t need him to confirm it, he’s referring to his awkward confession of puppy love from days gone by, that he’d randomly brought up at the bar about an hour previous.

“I know, but I want to clarify or something.”

“Really, dude, you don’t have to,” Mickey chides more softly now.

“Yeah, but you didn’t even say anything before. You just basically blew right past a reaction, and went straight to evading the issue,” Ian prods.

Mickey exhales audibly, having been worried that the whole thing would arise again at some point in the evening, because Ian was right, he had just shut down any thoughts of indulging in the admission. He hadn’t wanted to be pushed to consider his own previous feelings any closer. He kept vacillating between what they were exactly. He’d never really thought about it as being love. . . like _love_ love. Whatever fondness had been pulled out of him by Ian, whatever small moments of affection he’d let shine through, and whatever intense reactions he’d had when confronted by Ian’s relationships with other men, it never crossed his mind that he could love the kid.

Besides that, young punk-ass Mickey knew he didn’t deserve to be loved. Especially not by the likes of someone like Ian, who didn’t see how much more they were than what their environment had instilled in them. Ian was different than anyone else he’d known a the time, and Mickey had always realized that. He both relished it, and beat himself up over it. Ian was the type who couldn’t see that he was too good for Mickey, and the South Side, and all of it. He tried to get down in the muck with all the rest of them, and some circumstances couldn’t spare the boy from indulging in the realities of their collective existence and lashing out in the requisite hood ways, but Mickey could still see that it wasn’t really who he was. Ian was always trying to become someone better.

And it seems like he has. Mickey was right about him.

“Actually,” Mickey replies after a beat, “I had a pretty big crush on you for a while, if I’m bein' honest. Never would’a admitted it at the time, maybe didn’t even actually know it, but whatever.” He hesitates again, then continues, “You were significant to me too, so stop feelin' fucked up about it. It’s fine.”

“Mick,” Ian says with a dulcet lilt in his voice, a small, private smile on his lips, “that is, without a doubt, the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Mickey fidgets uncomfortably in the booth, looking away from Ian’s open stare, “Yeah, well. . . didn’t used to be much of a talker, right?” He paws at the back of his hair distractedly, before looking back at Ian’s face, still bright and open. He gulps at the sight, and bites his lip. “What time is it?”

“Dunno,” Ian smirks, in a knowing way, a daring expression creeping over his features. “Why, you gotta be somewhere?”

Mickey snorts, rolling his eyes, “Told you, I ain’t tied down to shit.”

“Right, I forgot,” Ian cheeks. “So, what’re you doing now then?”

Mickey meets his eye, unable to contain the smirk blooming on his face at Ian’s obvious intentions. “You tryin’ to pick me up, Gallagher?”

“Jeez, has it not been obvious since like a whiiiiile back?”

Mickey did miss this confident swagger that Ian tended to exude when he was trying to be charming, like he knew exactly the effect he was having and that bending to his will was somehow inevitable. “Gettin’ pretty late, and we’re both kinda sloshy still. You off tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Saturday. Boring nine-to-five office man, remember?” Ian says pointing a thumb at his chest.

“Alright, come back to mine then. I’m walking distance.”

The corners of Ian’s mouth quirk slightly more at the invitation, and he looks coy as he utters a quiet, “Okay.”


	3. Waiting in the Wings

Mickey leads Ian toward his apartment building in a charged fog of anticipation and nerves. They don’t say much, but Ian does occasionally let out a random fucking giggle like a total schoolgirl. Mickey doesn’t ask why, but he can guess.

Once inside, he leads him to one of the elevators and they ride it up to the 13th floor.

“Isn’t that supposed to be unlucky?” Ian queries.

Mickey shrugs. “Eh, it seems stupid to assume that it’s like automatically negative luck. I just act like it is in fact lucky as shit. Superstition is fuckin’ dumb, anyway. In actuality, it means nothin’ at all.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah, you’re probly right.”

“I know I’m right, Gallagher. Rational thought is king.”

They approach Mickey’s door and he unlocks it, swinging it wide and holding it open to allow Ian to pass through in front of him. He looks unabashedly impressed with the place.

Mickey snickers as he closes the door and locks up. “Not what you were expecting?”

“Not really,” Ian admits with a slightly apologetic look. He’s looking around the space appreciatively. It’s a decent size and pretty well, if not sparsely decorated. It’s clean and it has nice accents and flourishes. It’s an old building that hasn’t been overly modernized, which Ian finds really cool. He hates brand new things, and excessively renovated things even more, preferring a bit of history and character to his spaces. “Sorry, I guess it’s still hard to really imagine you not surrounded by at least a tiny amount of dirt and/or squalor.”

“I think dirt and squalor mean the same thing, so you’re being redundant. And don’t worry, I did spend most of my life grimy as fuck. Been on a steady upward trajectory for like half a decade at most.”

“Yeah, well, not exactly like I grew up in a palace of mine own,” Ian chortles. “I can still remember awkwardly jerking off in bed, under the covers, while Lip did the same over in his bunk, and we both pretended not to notice, or care that we were in fact sexing ourselves up in one another’s presence, while also attempting not to wake our younger brothers from their innocent slumber. Good times.”

Mickey chuckles. “Man, I don’t think Carl was ever innocent a day in his life. He came out the womb throwin' punches and dirty looks.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ian says, tittering.

“You want a beer?” Mickey asks, walking into the kitchen.

“Mmm, probly wouldn’t drink a whole one. Share?”

“‘Kay,” he replies, pulling a bottle out of the fridge, and popping the top with the opener sitting on the counter.

He takes a long swig as he walks back into the living room, and passes it to Ian when he reaches him.

“Thanks.” Ian swallows a mouthful and passes it back with a knowing grin.

“You keep smirkin' at me like that,” Mickey challenges, putting him on the spot.

Ian’s cheeks redden slightly, and he quietly answers, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I know you don’t mean it.” Mickey takes another gulp of beer and places the bottle on the counter behind him. He turns back to Ian, who’s now openly running his eyes over Mickey’s face and his body, clearly wondering if he should make a move or not.

Mickey pauses for a moment, wondering the same thing, when suddenly he realizes one key element he'd completely let slip his mind. . . As intimately as Ian and Mickey have known one another, they’ve never actually kissed. Mickey had never allowed it when they were kids. It was one of those things he refused to do for a long time after he’d admitted his sexual inclinations. Ian hadn’t been around by the time he’d gotten rid of that particular hangup.

Ian’s looking at him like a man at sea without a raft. He had remembered the fact that he’d never been able to kiss Mickey just seconds before Mickey himself had. That left him wanting to do something, but not knowing where to begin. What if Mickey had spent all this time still refusing to allow his lips to come into contact with other lips? It seems like a ridiculous concept for someone rapidly approaching 30, but maybe? Ian has no idea really, so he just runs his gaze over Mickey’s face, trying to read him, and see if he can miraculously puzzle it out.

Mickey gulps visibly, licking his lips. Ian’s eyes become slightly hooded at that, and his breathing speeds up, wondering if that’s some kind of silent invitation. He licks his own lips involuntarily. Mickey watches, his heart suddenly feeling like it’s beating right out of his chest, pumping all of his blood up somewhere in between his ears in a heady rush.

“For fuck’s sake, Gallagher,” Mickey says roughly, closing the gap between them and pulling Ian to him bodily.

Their mouths part simultaneously, then finally connect for the very first time, in a deep and demanding kiss. Ian cups Mickey’s head in one of his large palms and presses him closer as he twists his tongue over and turns his head to the other side. His other hand fits naturally on Mickey’s lower back, and he pushes him in closer there as well, stepping in so that their bottom halves are also touching. Mickey has one hand on the nape of Ian’s neck, and the other on one of his broad shoulder blades. As Ian basks in the feel of soft lips and slick tongue, Mickey starts running his hand all over Ian’s back, seeking out every curve of hard muscle and bone.

Ian sucks Mickey’s plump bottom lip into his mouth, and moans lowly, because it’s something he so often used to fantasize about doing. He lightly draws it between his teeth and then licks it again before turning his attention to Mickey’s top lip, then delving his tongue back in between both.

Mickey’s honestly never really been a fan of making out. It’s pretty much something he’s regarded as a necessary step in foreplay that he can get by on with as little as possible, before galloping along to the main event. Kissing was fine and all, but it just didn’t really do much for him. It didn’t typically serve to turn him on, he just went through the motions of it until he could get to the good stuff. He didn’t usually kiss during actual sex. There was no need.

In fact, unless a tongue was on, in, or around his dick or ass, Mickey really couldn’t give two shits about interacting with one. There was an incident once where a guy had stuck his tongue inside Mickey’s ear, like halfway in his actual goddamn hearing canal, and he had nearly head-butted the dude. He’d drawn back violently, pushing at the guy’s face while yelling in a very non-sexy way, and warned him never to do that shit again unless he wanted to get knocked the fuck out. Dude had appeared startled at first, then calmly went back to business, keeping his head far away from Mickey’s the whole rest of the time. He’d not been invited to a repeat performance.

However, Mickey feels like this with Ian is actually nice, and he’s surprised as shit that he is in fact getting turned on by the redhead’s mouth on his. He imagines a lot of it has to do with the fact that he and Ian have never done this before, and they’ve done practically everything else together. Maybe also the fact that this is a reunion of sorts. The two of them hadn’t come together this way in years and years. Had never thought that they ever would. It was almost like living out a fantasy. That was probably heightening Mickey’s perception of everything and that’s why he suddenly didn’t mind the slimy feel of someone else’s saliva being swiped and secreted all over the inside and outside of his mouth. Plus, Ian seemed to know what the fuck he was doing.

Ian, for his part, can’t tell at all that Mickey is hesitant on the mouth-to-mouth front. He’s so ecstatic to finally get to really explore those hot lips that he’d watched wrapped around his cock so many times before, he almost doesn’t care if anything else goes down between them. He could probably cream his pants eventually like a damn tween if given enough time and build-up.

They stand in the living room kissing like that for minutes upon minutes that feel a lot like hours upon hours. Time begins fading from quantification and meaning somewhere along the way, but Mickey eventually pulls back and reaches for Ian’s forearm to pull him into the bedroom down the hall.

He lets Ian go as they enter, and starts pulling off his shoes and socks, undoing his belt as he shuffles to his bedside table, switching on a dim hanging lamp that casts just the right amount of mood lighting.

“Take your fuckin’ shirt off,” he says, turning back to face Ian as he pulls his own shirt over his head.

Ian chuckles and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously, while unbuttoning his shirt somewhat slowly, even though his mind thinks he’s actually going fast. Mickey is staring at him hungrily either way, so it doesn’t really matter.

Mickey walks back towards Ian once the shirt is off, and he runs his hands over the newly exposed chest, abs, and upper arms he’s been coveting.

“Damn, Gallagher, you grew up nice, didn’t you?” he says sultrily, drinking Ian in by sight and touch.

Ian had always been pretty buff, even when he was all of 15 and he’d been super into the ROTC bullshit Mickey gave him so much crap about at the time, but this was a whole other level. Ian was built, chiseled and well-defined, but not like in a gross way, where it was just so much that it was eye-rolling. He kept it just lean enough that it was hotter than hell, and Mickey was slightly offended that Ian ever wore anything on his upper body at all. It was meant to be on constant display.

“Not so bad yourself,” Ian grins, eyes glassy, as he runs a forefinger down Mickey’s lithe, but much more subtly cut torso.

Ian abruptly grabs at Mickey, drawing him into another kiss, and turning them around so that he’s the one with his back to the bed. He walks them backward a few steps and plops down onto the edge in a sitting position, dragging Mickey with him so that he’s straddling his lap, never breaking the connection of their lips. He slips his hands inside the back of Mickey’s undone jeans until he has two handfuls of his ample ass, moaning as he squeezes, having forgotten how fucking hot it felt. Ian can’t wait to see and feel it bouncing all over him again.

He pulls his mouth away then. “Finish getting undressed,” he orders.

Mickey stands up and ditches his jeans, as Ian fumbles around with his high-top Chucks which are always a pain in the ass to get off when in a hurry and slightly tipsy. He manages to pull off one and tosses it across the room haphazardly, sailing dangerously close to Mickey’s head.

“Watch it, Firecrotch!” he yelps.

“Sorry!” Ian calls back, picking at the double knot on his left shoe now, scrunching his nose up in consternation. “I’m gonna kill these fucking things.”

Mickey can’t help laughing heartily as he observes Ian’s struggle. He takes pity on him, and comes over to take the shoe off for him like he’s fucking Prince Charming or some shit.

“My hero!” Ian says in a comically over-dramatic way, kissing Mickey on the back of the hand closest to him.

“Christ, Gallagher, I think we’re seein' a classic case of delayed onset drunkenness.”

“What? Nope. I’m fine.” He finally seems to notice Mickey’s tight, colorful briefs, and a loud cackle spills out. “Oh my god! You’ve started wearing proper gay man undies! That’s fucking adorable.”

“Alright, princess, let’s see what kind you’ve got underneath your jeans now, shall we? Stand up.”

Mickey helps him into a standing position in front of the bed, and undoes Ian’s top button and zipper, a sharp intake of breath getting held until it makes him a little bit dizzy when his semi-erect dick pops out.

Ian laughs over-enthusiastically again, “No underwear for me tonight. Pants were too tight.”

“Fuck,” Mickey says, finally exhaling. “Looks like the rest of your body finally caught up to your cock. It looks appropriate now, rather than unnatural.”

“Is that a compliment or a criticism? I can’t really tell right now.”

“I don’t think anyone in their right minds could ever criticize your dick, man. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” Ian concedes easily. “You gonna finish taking my pants off, or are you just gonna ogle my crotch all night?”

“Right,” Mickey says, shaking his head as if to clear out the lust, and he pulls down Ian’s pants the rest of the way so he can step out of them.

Mickey straightens back up, and upon seeing the goofy-ass smile on Ian’s face, pushes him back onto the bed so that he flops onto it with an, “Oof,” and snuggles into the soft down of Mickey’s dark blue comforter. “Oh my god, your bed is so soft!”

“What time did you wake up this morning?” Mickey asks suspiciously.

“What? I don’t know. I guess 6:30?”

“Fuck.” Mickey looks at the clock, seeing that it’s just after 3 am, sighs and rolls his eyes, wiping a hand over his face as he realizes that the sex is going to have to be postponed. No way his first time fucking Ian again is going to be while he’s in this silly state of sleep deprivation with a side of mild inebriation. He doesn’t really have a moral compass in regards to this sort of thing, but he’d rather them both be at the top of their game when this goes down, so that it can be as explosive as he suspects it will. Half-assed tumbles in the sack aren’t gonna cut it in this case.

“C’mere,” Ian mumbles softly, crooking a finger at Mickey, though his eyes are closed.

Mickey climbs up onto the bed, first moving to turn off the lamp over the nightstand, before he lays alongside Ian in the middle of the mattress.

“C’mere,” Ian repeats, skimming a few fingers over Mickey’s jaw.

Their mouths find each other in the dark and they make out a little bit longer on top of the covers.

“Don’t you wanna get under here?” Mickey asks, pulling away and gesturing to the blanket when they both start to shiver at the rumbling air conditioner vent above the bed.

“Mmm, yesssss,” Ian slurs.

Mickey manages to pull him up and around until he’s got them both situated under the covers.

“Aren’t we gonna fuck?” Ian asks, voice already thick with near-sleep.

“Definitely,” Mickey tells him, eyes closed and ready to drift off. “As soon as we wake up. It’s nap time.”

“Nap time?” Ian snorts. “That’s silly.”

“Yep. But you’ve been awake nearly 24 hours, and that’s really fuckin’ silly, so go the fuck to sleep. My ass will still be here in the morning.”

“Better be.”

“It’s my fuckin’ house, Gallagher, where the fuck else would I be?”

“Wherever the fuck you’ve been all the rest of the years,” Ian answers almost inaudibly, but Mickey hears him.

There’s no need for a reply though, as Mickey can hear his breathing even out, and Ian’s fingers stop their idle caressing against the skin of Mickey’s side, indicating that he’s fallen asleep. It doesn’t take long for Mickey to follow.

 

* * *

 

Ian has a pretty rigid internal clock that makes it so that he can never seem to sleep past 9 am at the very latest, no matter what time he actually ended up in bed. It’s good in terms of being able to get a lot of things done with his days, but it’s annoying as fuck when he’s feeling lazy and comfortable, or nursing any level of hangover from the night before. At the moment he’s a little bit of all three.

He starts coming to somewhere around a quarter past 8, and the first thing he notices before even opening his eyes is that he has a definite morning wood situation going on, and also that it’s poking at something that feels pretty good. Slowly, it dawns on him that his arm is around another person, and that his dick is in fact pressed against an ass.

He blinks his eyes open and dazedly lifts his head to look down at the person in front of him. _Mickey. Right. That happened._ Ian bites back the swell of joyous laughter he feels bubbling up inside him. He suddenly feels practically giddy at his current position against the man beside him.

He begins slowly and tentatively moving his hand up and down Mickey’s bare stomach, appreciating the softness of his skin. That was one of the weirdest inconsistencies with Mickey Milkovich. He had the softest skin Ian had ever felt to this day. It seemed out of sync with everything about him, but it was the truth. He had a curiously minimal amount of body hair and there was just something silky smooth about every inch of him, like a goddamn baby. Ian presses his face into the middle of Mickey’s back then, and inhales his scent while nuzzling against it. He fucking smells the same too. Maybe a little less sweaty, but there was always something nice about Mickey’s odor.

It's really fucking weird. It’s like he’s in some kind of time warp, but then one where they’ve both aged still. So many things feel different, and so many things feel exactly the same. He can’t think about it too much right now, or he might psych himself out, and go hide in the bathroom or something.

He presses a kiss to Mickeys back, where his lips are resting, and moves his hand further up Mickey’s torso to circle and rake around his left nipple. Then he starts gently grinding his hard-on into the cleft of Mickey’s firm ass.

Ian’s subtle movements begin to rouse Mickey from his slumber and the awareness of a boner sliding against the crack of his clothed ass is the first thing he really pinpoints.Then there’s the hand teasing all over his upper body, and the mouth sliding around over his spine. His brow arches naturally as he starts to recall who it is that’s wrapped around him. _Ian._ His eyes snap wide open, his heart-rate speeding right up. He starts moving his hips back ever so slightly so that his ass is now causing a counter-friction to Ian’s movements against him, and he grabs Ian’s left hand where it’s feeling him up around the pectoral area and inches it downward until it’s grasping at Mickey’s hardening cock. Ian squeezes it with the perfect amount of pressure and moans lowly, moving his mouth to just below Mickey’s ear.

“Hey,” he breathes out huskily against Mickey’s neck, accentuating his greeting by moving his hand under the waistband of Mickey’s briefs and touching his bare erection.

Mickey moans this time, before gasping out, “‘Sup, Gallagher?”

Ian huffs a laugh against his neck. “Me. And you, apparently.”

They rut against each other a little while longer while Ian continues fondling Mickey inside his underwear, until finally the latter decides to take control of the whole shebang.

Mickey pulls Ian’s hand away from him and flips over until he’s face to face with Ian, lowering himself on top of him. He stares at him for a second with a sleepy look still on his face, as a small smile blooms on Ian’s, and he draws Mickey’s head down to his own for a ‘morning breath be damned’ open-mouth kiss. Ian is still blissed out on just having Mickey’s lips on his. The fact that he’s currently naked underneath the man is merely an afterthought.

“Mmm,” Ian intones, breaking away. “Your mouth.”

“My mouth?” Mickey snickers.

“Mmhmm,” Ian confirms, nodding.

“You like my mouth?” Mickey teases, licking at Ian’s lips as they try to pull him back in.

“I like your mouth a lot,” Ian breathes out.

“Yeah?” Mickey presses a closed-mouth kiss to Ian’s lips and starts to move his head lower, ghosting his mouth and breathing heavily over Ian’s upper body as he makes his way down.

Once he’s hovering above Ian’s straining cock, he looks up to meet his eyes again, “Where do you like my mouth?”

Ian’s breath hitches. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Like here?” Mickey asks, sticking his tongue out and running it up Ian’s dick from the base to the tip.

Ian groans. “Yes.”

Mickey takes the head between his lips and sucks just hard enough to cause that weird tingling sensation, and curls the tip of his tongue into Ian’s slit, playing with it a little before pulling off again. “You sure?”

“Fuck, Mickey! Stop toying with me,” Ian says loudly, slapping softly at his face and threading his fingers in his dark hair to pull him closer.

Mickey sniggers and relents, sliding his mouth back down on Ian, taking him in about halfway this time. As his head bobs up and down on Ian’s big dick, pulling sounds of pleasure from above him, Mickey keenly remembers trying to take Ian’s whole wide length inside of him. He’d have to use a considerable amount of his actual throat to do so, and at the time of their earlier sexcapades he was not very practiced at the art of the blowjob, and he was also selfish enough not to care if he could really go all the way down or not. It made no difference to him personally. He also hadn’t liked to swallow.

Things change. People grow.

He’s able to slide Ian in, farther and farther down, until there’s just a couple more inches left. Ian is writhing around, emitting loud enough moans that Mickey is confident Ian wouldn’t be mad if he just stopped there, but he intends to see this through, goddammit.

He pulls off completely for a moment, drooling on himself as well as Ian’s lap and strokes the shaft with his hand for a bit. He looks at Ian again and he’s gazing right back at him, eyes wide open now, pupils heavily dilated. _And, fuck, he’s gotten hot_.

Mickey then takes a deep breath and plunges back down, some way, somehow taking Ian in to the hilt. His gag reflex holds back, and he sets a fast pace, breathing through his nose.

Meanwhile, Ian is losing his fucking mind, eyes rolled back as he presses his head harder into the pillow, running one hand over his own face, as the other remains tangled in Mickey’s hair pulling on it slightly with the movements of his head. He rarely gets the deep-throat treatment, and it drives him absolutely wild. Mickey has clearly learned a lot in the last ten years. And it’s that simple thought that prompts Ian to realize that he himself has also learned a fucking lot in the past decade. _Like,_ _a lot_. The realization brings a ridiculously giant smile to his face, and he moves to push Mickey off of him by the shoulders, so he can show him all the things that he can do now.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?” Mickey asks, when Ian’s dick falls out of his mouth wetly. “You want me to _stop_?”

“No, dumbass, I don’t, but it’s your turn,” Ian replies impishly, taking a stronger hold of Mickey’s shoulders, and pushing him over onto the mattress so that he’s now beneath Ian. “You suck cock real good now, though,” Ian praises, still smiling widely. “Great job!”

Mickey rolls his eyes and flips him off. “Fuck you.”

“I intend to,” Ian says, still grinning big. “But first. . .”

Ian skims his hands down Mickey’s sides until he reaches his thighs, squeezing them roughly as he muses, “You always had really nice legs.”

“And again, fuck you.”

Ian chuckles, “Again, I’m getting there. Patience, young grasshopper.”

He hooks his thumbs into the elastic band of Mickey’s half-hilarious, half-super-hot, bright turquoise fucking tighties, and yanks them far enough down that Mickey can kick them off of with his feet. Ian then moves back up to wrap his right hand around the impressively thick base of Mickey’s deep red erection, applying gentle pressure, pleased to see a few beads of cum dribble from the slit. He leans over to lick it off, and Mickey moans appreciatively, watching Ian’s large mouth as it takes him in.

Ian jacks him off in synchronicity with the movements of his mouth, sucking and slurping up and down the shaft, and it feels fucking perfect. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of wetness. Then Mickey feels Ian’s other hand move from where it was still kneading his meaty left thigh, to cup his balls and roll them around in a gentle, but firm grip. Ian then pulls his mouth off of Mickeys cock, making sure to keep his hand steadily stroking it as he moves down to suck one ball into his mouth, letting it loll around his tongue, before also sucking in the other one, humming quietly to create vibration. Mickey can feel the slobber dripping down all over him, and for some reason he finds that super fucking sexy.

The sensations working him over, combined with the view of Ian’s big, dumb, hot face hungrily lapping around Mickey’s crotch, his pale nose buried in dark pubes (Mickey’s been doing the _au naturel_ thing lately), his absurdly red hair disheveled and falling all over the place. . . they're all serving to make Mickey feel more excited than he’s felt in a long fucking time. He’s never been so glad about his killer stamina.

Mickey’s so caught up in musing over all the ways Ian is making him feel like he’s on fire, that he doesn’t realize for a moment that Ian’s mouth and hand are no longer attending to his groin. As soon as he notices, he looks up and sees Ian still with that annoying grin, hovering right over him and studying his face.

“Where do you keep the lube?” he asks.

Mickey quirks an eyebrow, totally confused and disoriented for half a second, before he can actually register what Ian just said. “Uhhhh. . . nightstand.” He gestures lamely toward the other side of the bed, and Ian totally laughs at him as he moves across the bed to search the drawer next to it. “Shut up! You’re fucking up my brain.”

“I know,” Ian says with a fake put-upon sigh as he moves back over to Mickey, “I’m an amazing lover. I gum up the works.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Bitch, I’m about to flatter _you_ , don’t worry about it.” He grabs Mickey around the biceps. “Roll over.”

Mickey bites his lip to keep a smile from overtaking his features, and complies as instructed. Ian drinks in the sight of Mickey’s unblemished, perky butt cheeks. He’s missed this ass. He hadn’t even realized it until it was right in front of him.

At first, he just stares at it, but then it occurs to him that he really needs to touch it, so he carefully fits his palms over each cheek at the perfect point that allows for a full, fleshy handful, kneading and then jiggling, before quickly letting go, so he can watch them bounce. This is another thing that he could just do all day, attention to his dick be damned.

But of course, this isn’t quite as exciting for Mickey himself. “‘Ey! Gallagher!” Ian looks up to find Mickey’s over-the-shoulder gaze leveling him in annoyance.

“You still have an amazing ass, Mick.”

“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of it.”

Mickey bursts out laughing, and Ian joins him a moment later, realizing his _faux pas_.

“Poor choice of words for a gay man, carrot top! You new at this?”

“Shut up, you know I’m not. You bring out the uncool in me, apparently.”

“I know my ass is really entrancing and everything, but can you please, like, do somethin' more interesting with it?”

“You mean like open it up and see what’s inside?” Ian jokes.

Mickey groans, “Please stop talking and show me what you got. Didn’t we have this same fucking conversation ten years ago?”

Ian sighs. “Maybe, but you’ve become so loquacious since then. You sure you don’t enjoy the chit-chat?”

“I’m sure. Now shut the fuck up and get on me.”

Ian gasps in feigned indignation and pushes Mickey’s head back into the pillow underneath it as he reaches for the lube. He slaps Mickey hard across one ass cheek for good measure.

“Ow!” Mickey yelps.

“That’s what you get,” Ian chastises, running the same hand down Mickey’s crack, pressing and rubbing at his dry hole with a middle finger. This elicits another moan from Mickey and Ian quickly flips open the cap on the lube and lets it drizzle over his fingers and drip down into the crevice of Mickey’s ass.

At first he just massages it around trying to relax the muscle a bit before delving his forefinger in little by little, enjoying the sight of it disappearing inside Mickey’s hole. Once he feels the contractions around it lessen, accepting the digit more easily, he adds a second finger, and Mickey hisses at the pleasurable ache of it.

“Mmm, you’re so tight, Mick,” Ian proclaims huskily. “I’m getting so fucking hard.”

Mickey groans in anticipation, and his asshole clenches around Ian’s pumping digits as he begins scissoring him open. Ian continues his ministrations until he can fit his ring finger in alongside the others, to be certain Mickey is ready to accept the full extent of his arousal.

“Condom?” Ian asks.

“Fuck, man, same drawer as the lube.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, withdrawing his hand and quickly crawling back to the bedside table to rummage with his clean hand, until he finds a sleeve of BareSkin Trojans.

He tears one off and rips the wrapper with his teeth like a pro, rolling the latex down onto his dick in a flash and grabbing the lube again, in order to slick himself up liberally. He then grasps for a free corner of top sheet so he can wipe the excess stickiness from his right hand before he reaches for Mickey’s hips to pull him up onto his hands and knees. He smacks him on the other butt cheek for good measure.

Mickey huffs a surprised laugh, “Ian! Stop hittin' me and fuckin’–”

Ian cuts him off by pushing in roughly without further preamble, and they both groan loudly as their eyes squeeze shut at the sensation.

Mickey revels in the stretch as Ian pauses for a moment once he’s bottomed out. _So. Fucking._ _Big_.

For a moment, it’s like they’re frozen in time, chests heaving, thighs flush against one another, heads floating away somewhere into the sex clouds. Mickey snaps out of it first, pulling his hips forward, and forcefully pleading, “Fuck me!”

Ian doesn’t need to be told twice. He starts moving his hips and grips Mickey more firmly around the waist as they find a common rhythm, staying upright for now, so he can watch his cock sliding in and out of the tight, warm ring of muscle. He moves his hands back to palm Mickey’s ass again and pulls the cheeks apart so he can get a better view whilst also copping a feel.

“Oh god, you look so hot like this,” he says, hissing rapturously.

Mickey wishes he could see it from Ian’s perspective. That was the one downside to being male and a bottom. You didn’t get that direct line of sight on the action, and the visual thrill that powers the sex in so many ways. It felt pretty fucking good though, so that was something.

Ian moves his body so that it’s covering his back, wrapping his right arm around Mickey’s middle, as the left one falls down parallel to Mickey’s to press into the mattress, giving him purchase on the bed. He doesn’t falter in his movements, and their thrusts are still in sync. He presses a kiss to Mickey’s upper back where his head naturally falls and Mickey feels him slide his right hand down, down, down, until it’s lightly tugging at Mickey’s hard-on for a few strokes, then farther down to cup his balls, rolling them so that his large hand has them tucked upward into the grasp of his palm, and his fingers ghost across Mickey’s perineum ticklishly until he has them splayed around his own dick as it moves in and out of Mickey’s ass, pressing them in lightly at Mickey’s stretched hole as he fills him up. _Holy fuck._

Ian’s moans get bolder and more frequent, and Mickey gets even more turned on thinking about how much Ian is turning himself on with his tactile confirmation of thepoint where their bodies are joined. It’s like he wants to feel it all, everywhere, and Mickey’s moans get louder as well.

“Fuck, I need to see you,” Ian bellows, disentangling himself from Mickey and pulling out momentarily.

Mickey doesn’t need direction this time, he just flips onto his back and parts his legs, planting his feet on the mattress as Ian kneels between them. Sitting back on his haunches and spreading his own legs, Ian grasps Mickey behind the knees and pulls him forward, lining up his cock and breaching Mickey once more as he gazes down in fascination.

“You like to watch,” Mickey states, more than asks.

“So fucking hot,” Ian replies anyway. “Can’t help it.”

Mickey watches Ian watch them have sex, and starts to reach for his own throbbing dick, when Ian slaps his hand away and takes it in his instead. He strokes it roughly for a few seconds, before withdrawing to lick his palm, and takes it again more smoothly and steadily. Now he’s watching himself fuck Mickey, while also watching Mickey’s dick fuck his hand. It’s the perfect image really. Then he seems to snap out of it, as he looks up to Mickey’s face and meets his gaze. His demeanor becomes instantly apologetic, like he’s afraid he was being selfish, when really Mickey doesn’t mind it in the least.

Nevertheless, Ian dives down decisively and rests his body fully against Mickey, eyes darting around his face searching for something he can’t quite place, hips still pumping and dragging moans out of his bottom. And then he’s kissing Mickey again, without grace, or thought, or care, only pure passion, with tongue, and teeth, and hands cupping Mickey’s whole head, cradling him as he thrusts harder and deeper into his ass.

He presses in closer and Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s back tightly, pulling him in impossibly more, until Mickey can feel his own cock rubbing against the ridges of Ian’s washboard abs. He moans into his mouth and lowers his hands to Ian’s ass, squeezing and pushing him in deeper.

“Fuck,” Mickey says, moving his head to the side, breath ragged. “Keep doin’ that.” He turns his head back to Ian’s and continues kissing him deeply as they rut against each other in perfect tandem, bodies entwined so tightly, there seems to be no air between them at all.

“Mmm, Mick,” Ian whispers, pulling his head back to look at him. “You feel amazing.” His hands are now roaming freely over Mickey’s arms, and neck, and anywhere he can get them as the couple maintains their intense proximity. “So soft.” He licks across Mickey’s lips and kisses him one more time before moving to sit back on his knees once more. 

This time, he pulls Mickey up with him and positions him to crouch over his dick, shins spread flush against the bed on either side of Ian’s bent legs. It’s a good position for him to angle up into Mickey, while Mickey can leverage himself down to meet him as well. It’s a way to really meet in the middle, and hopefully hit the prostate and send Mickey spiraling out of control.

“Ohhhhh,” Mickey moans as he sinks back down onto Ian’s cock. Ian immediately starts thrusting up at a fast pace and Mickey bounces on his lap in such a way that Ian can feel his ass cheeks slapping against his thighs deliciously. And then Mickey starts openly moaning in a slightly higher register that Ian knows to be indicative of his prostate being worshipped.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ian says with a devilish smile. “Right there.” He keeps angling his cock right at that spot and Mickey’s head is thrown back, eyes tightly shut, mouth agape in ecstasy. Ian wants to watch that face all day.

Mickey suddenly furrows his brow, and his eyes fly open to connect with Ian’s. And then Ian is being pushed back until he’s lying fully against the bed top with his legs stretched out in front of him and Mickey, never having pulled off of his dick, is straddling him. . . _Riding_ him. _Oh, fuck._

Mickey had never gotten on top of Ian before. . . when they were teenagers. He’d never ridden Ian’s cock. It was another killer fantasy of Ian’s that he’d long since forgotten.

He stares up at Mickey, unable to move, and when he finally tries to, Mickey stops him. First he pins his legs to the mattress by hooking his fucking feet into the insides of Ian’s upper thighs, and then he pins his arms, holding them by the wrists on either side of Ian’s head. Then he just fucking goes to town on Ian’s dick. His eyes are closed again, and he’s sucked his bottom lip into his mouth so that Ian can see his top front teeth biting into it sexily. His head lolls to and fro with the hard, fast movements of his lower body, and it’s like he’s taken complete control, and also surrendered completely to wild abandon. And it’s this combination of reckless indulgence that Ian is sure is the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

Mickey releases hold of his arms in order to run his hands over his own body, and fuck if that doesn’t make Ian almost come. It’s like Mickey’s just using Ian’s dick as his own personal sex toy and that’s doing things to him that he can’t begin to describe, so he moves his hands between Mickey’s legs and let’s them hover beneath his ass so he can feel the way it fucking bounces around as he falls down onto Ian’s dick.

“Oh shit!” Ian calls out, the urgency evident in his voice. “I’m gonna come!”

He pulls his upper body up and wraps his arms around Mickey’s back, bringing him close again and devouring his mouth. Their moans get lost in each other, and they thrust together once, twice, thrice more and Mickey is coming around Ian’s thick cock, splashing warm jizz all over both their torsos. The pulsating, tight contractions around him push Ian over the edge as well and he stills his hips and holds Mickey against him as he spills into the condom.

There’s a momentary pause as they stay stiffly locked together in the rush of release, before they collapse together sideways across the bed, and Ian’s softening dick starts slipping out of Mickey without much assistance.

“Holy fuck,” Ian says, wrapping a hand around the end of the condom at the base of his dick, pulling out the rest of the way, and rolling onto his back away from Mickey.

“No shit,” Mickey agrees, rolling the opposite direction onto his stomach.

They were experiencing that post-sex thing where sensitivity is so high that a simple touch can't be borne. It would just be too much. A cool down period was needed.

“That was. . .” Ian pauses in thought, “. . . something else.”

Mickey laughs. “ _Yeah_ it was.”

“We’re pretty good at that.”

“ _Yeah_ we are.”

“I think we’re gonna need to do that again real soon.”

Mickey makes a strangled noise halfway between a snort and a shriek, “I’m gonna need a few hours, Gallagher. That was kind of intense.”

“A few hours? Jeez, old man, it wasn’t _that_ crazy.”

“‘Ey, watch it! I need a reasonable refractory period, okay?”

Ian sniggers derisively. “Yeah, alright, grandpa. I’ll wait for ya.”

“Please. Don’t act like that didn’t take it out of you. I can tell you got stamina, but fuck. We just sweated buckets all over each other, and came like five times harder than average.”

Ian laughs louder this time. “Oh really? Is that based on your proven scientific calculations?”

“No, fuckhead, it’s based on my experience in the field.”

“Pfft, I bet I’ve clocked twice as much field time as you have,” Ian goads.

“Yeah, probly. You’ve always been kinda sluttier than me, haven’t you?”

“Hey!” Ian cries, slapping the back of his hand on Mickey’s back. “Low blow.”

Mickey titters at his hypocrisy and gets up to move to the head of the bed so he can lie against the pillows. Ian follows his lead and takes his place at Mickey’s left, same as they had slept the previous night, finally pulling the used condom off himself and tying it off, before tossing it haphazardly onto the hardwood floor near the bed.

“I can’t believe I’d never kissed you before,” Ian says with a hint of despondency.

“Really?” Mickey says, pretending as if it’s news to him. “I never kissed you?”

“Fuck you!” Ian roars indignantly. “You’re saying you don’t recall withholding your mouth from me for nearly two years?” He pauses, but continues before Mickey can respond, “Unless you were sucking my dick, because that was somehow _less_ gay in your backward-ass little closeted head.”

“No, I remember,” Mickey concedes. “I didn’t really get over that particular hang-up for a long time. Actually, by the time I let the first guy do it, it was like the biggest anticlimax of all time. I felt like a total retard.”

Ian snorts derisively. “Yeah, cuz it was a dumb, arbitrary fucking fear to have. And it was almost like goddamn torture to me.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Really?” he retorts. “ _Torture_ , Gallagher? I seem to remember you all up in the deepest, most intimate parts of me on countless occasions, but that wasn’t good enough for you?”

“Are you familiar with the age old concept of wanting what you can’t have? I couldn’t stop thinking about your stupid fucking dirty mouth. You had like the most perfectly plump, pink, Tom-Hardy-ass lips I’d ever seen, and you just fucking _denied_ them to me. Of course I was obsessed with the thought of getting my mouth all over them.”

“Wow. When you put it that way, then I suppose I owe you a fuckin’ apology or somethin’.”

Ian backhands him across the chest this time. “Shut the fuck up! This is too _Through the Looking Glass_ right now. I don’t know how to live in a world where Mickey fucking Milkovich says he’s sorry.”

Mickey chuckles at that. “So what do you want then, the new me or the old me?”

He says it lightheartedly and looks at Ian askance with a wry grin on his face. Ian’s smile ever so slowly fades into something borderline alarming in its earnestness, his eyes piercing, like he’s really seeing Mickey now for the first time. . . peering into him and trying to discover what’s been lying there in wait for him for years. . . the answers to all the Mickey-related riddles that plagued his teenhood. . . the open ends he’d given up hope of ever getting the chance to give closure to.

After a pause that stretches out almost too long, Ian finally responds, “The real you.”

It hits Mickey like a fucking thunderbolt to the chest. His breath catches, and he just stares right back into Ian’s eyes, his smile dissipating as well. And he remembers. . . Remembers fucking sweet-faced, moony-eyed, 15-year-old Ian Gallagher, always trying to put on his tough little front and casual ‘down-with-it’ attitude, but somehow managing to find weird little ways to unnerve and disarm big, bad, 17-year-old, ticking time bomb Mickey Milkovich.

That kid that Ian was had shaken Mickey up unlike anyone else in his life ever had. While he’d never actually had the chance to give Ian the credit for cracking open the theoretical _feelings_ treasure chest within him, Mickey understood that it had been those small nudges from that goofy kid with the dick and the heart too big for his own good that had pushed him towards accepting who he was and what he wanted.

He was gay. He wanted cock. Maybe he even wanted someone to ‘feel things’ with. He just couldn’t be that person then. Not yet. Not at fucking 17, 18 years old. Not living in the shadow of Terry, and a town where he had a certain reputation to protect and maintain. He couldn’t do it yet, but he would eventually. Only problem was that by the time that freedom finally rolled around for Mickey, Ian was long gone.

So yeah, Mickey supposes maybe he _did_ pine for Ian a little bit too, back then. He can cop to it.

And now here they were, right back where they started, really. .. in Mickey’s bed, naked, having just fucked unexpectedly. But everything felt different. Everything had changed. . . but in a good way, he had to admit. . . a very good way.

They were adults now. They had another decade of life experiences behind them, since they’d last fumbled around together behind closed doors. They were men, not boys. They could make real choices, and maybe even have a real future if they wanted to. This could be so much better than it was then. This could be anything they wanted it to be. This could be everything.

After an eternity spent pondering his swirling swells of emotion, intently gazing at Ian’s handsome, grown-up face, Mickey finally spoke. “You always kind of knew the real me. Even when I had him buried deep inside, encased in fuckin’ concrete. Even when I treated you and everyone else like shit, you sort of understood somehow. It was kind of terrifying at the time. Maybe it still is, a little bit.”

“ _I_ terrified _you_?”

Mickey nods.

“So you’re saying we were just two dumb kids who scared the fuck out of each other?”

Mickey shrugs. “Seems that way.”

Ian gives a huff of frustrated laughter, bringing a hand up to his forehead and brushing his hair away. “Fuck! That is. . . so dumb it kind of makes me mad.”

Mickey sighs and let’s out a loud breath, “Well, we can’t do anything about it now. What’s done is done. It’s probly better this way anyhow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, either way. . . even if things had gone differently between us when we were younger, we still would’ve been in each other’s rear views at this fuckin’ point. Mainly, I should just consider myself lucky that you’re actually single right now, and not married to some 40-something, perfect, career queer, livin’ in the goddamn suburbs with a white picket fence and all that shit.”

Ian gives another snort and shakes his head, “Jesus, Mick, I’m only 26 years old. Fuck you if you assumed I was that unadventurous and boring.” He rises up and turns over onto his stomach, running his fingers up Mickey’s arm and shoulder, and propping his head up with his other arm. “Besides, I haven’t been into older, married types since I was like old enough to legally buy my own drinks.”

It’s Mickey’s turn to laugh and shake his head. “Ooh, five whole years of avoiding decrepit, gray cocks! I guess you’re reformed.” He taunts. “Never understood that whole fetish to begin with.”

“It wasn’t a fetish,” Ian says. “It was merely circumstantial. Those were the options available to me at the time, so I took them.”

“Bullshit! You could’ve had anyone you wanted back then. Still could. But you were so into playing that sick ‘daddy’ shit. Can’t deny it.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. I was still somewhat in the same South Side closet as you. Maybe I wasn’t as fucked up about it as you were, but it’s not like I could’ve just walked down the streets or hallways at school holding hands and making doe eyes at some twink.” He gives Mickey a pointed glare. “You _know_ that.”

“Still doesn’t explain the sugar-daddy thing. And you just admitted that you did it for years.”

Ian sighs loudly. “I was a poor, downtrodden kid with a shitty-ass home life and I liked putting my dick in things. I got treated nice to compensate for the age difference, and I got presents and shit, and I got to fuck dudes who knew what they were doing, without anyone I knew having to find out about it. Two birds, one stone. What the fuck does it matter now anyway? We just established that we were both dumbfuck kids back then. Just drop it.”

Mickey exhales audibly and runs a hand over his face before bringing it to Ian’s back and rubbing it in a soothing manner, realizing that maybe he touched a nerve, and it wasn’t really a fair thing to harp on after so much time had passed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. . . I guess I was kinda of jealous at the time.”

“Again with the apologies?” Ian asks, his tone switching easily back to playful. “You really need to stop. I’m gonna faint dead away.” He puts his hand to his forehead dramatically and pretends to pass out in the crook of Mickey’s neck.

“You’re still an idiot,” Mickey laughs.

Ian laughs too, before sighing against Mickeys throat, and pulling back to look him in the face once more. His expression is serious again, and Mickey arches his eyebrows waiting to see what he’s going to say.

“So what now?” Ian asks, and Mickey relaxes a little, even though he doesn’t have a clue how to respond.

“I have no idea. What are you thinkin’?”

Ian looks away from him, but stays close to his face, and seems to be wracking his brain for an answer. He looks back at Mickey and says, “I’m thinkin’. . . you and me. . . giving it a go. . . doing the whole thing. It’s weird, but I feel like this all makes sense, me and you. . . like I didn’t even know I missed you, and I honestly don’t remember thinking about you in ages, but when I did think about you from time to time, when you’d just pop into my head, I always regretted. . . well, I don’t really know what I regretted. . . just not getting a real chance, and like the way we never saw each other again after you went away that last time. I always felt like you were still a big question mark that I wished I could figure out. So it probably sounds cheesy as fucking hell, but maybe this is like some chance for cosmic course correction.”

“How alliterative of you. That sounds like a gay-ass, fancy way of sayin' you think this is fate.”

“Ugh,” Ian cringes and buries his face in Mickey’s chest momentarily, before popping back up. “Maybe it is, though.”

“Jesus, Gallagher, I can see this goin' poorly for me already. You’re so. . . infuriatingly sweet and naive. Even after all this time. You’re gonna kill me with your saccharine tenderness and affection, and I’m gonna hate you for likin' it so much.”

“Okay, first of all, I can tell you’ve gotten really into reading novels since the last time we spoke, because you’ve been eloquent as fuck all damn night and day. Second of all. . . Is that a yes?”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you wanna date me? For real?”

“Date you?” Mickey furrows his brow. “That sounds so weird.”

“What-the-fuck-ever. Do I have to ask you if you wanna go steady or something? Wear my pin or my class ring? Be my boyfriend after one fucking fuck?”

“Technically, we’ve done it a lot more than once.”

“Whatever, we’re hitting the reset button.”

Mickey gasps in faux horror. “How dare you? Those were some of the prime ‘ass’ years of my life, and you got a piece! You can’t just throw those memories away like they were garbage.”

Ian laughs and concedes. “Fine! I don’t nullify our crappy, tortured, teenage fuckfest, whatever it was. But I promise you my skills have only been honed in your absence.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that memo when you were poundin' into me earlier, numbnuts. Pretty sure my skill-set has gotten a lot broader too, or didn’t you notice?”

“Just say that you like me. You like me, and you wanna date me, and-” Ian drops his mouth onto Mickey’s chest smothering the rest of the sentence into his skin, embarrassed, like he didn’t mean to continue it in the first place.

“What’s that, mumbles?” Mickey cracks.

“Nothing, just forget it.”

Ian gasps and snickers as Mickey tickles his side. “Say it, or I will fuckin’ tickle the shit out of you until you wanna die.”

Ian laughs, “What! You’re a fucking tickler now too? On top of everything else, you engage in childish horseplay such as tickling?”

“Don’t fuckin’ change the subject, wise guy. Make your smart-ass comment you were too embarrassed for me to hear.” He tickles Ian again, on both sides this time.

“Fuck, fuck, okay!” He yells. “I said, you’re gonna fall in love with me.”

“Whoa! That is a pretty ballsy fuckin’ claim. You should feel ashamed for saying it. You’re gonna send me runnin' straight for the proverbial hills.”

“Oh yeah, tough guy? Why are you still lying here with me in your bed then? Why haven’t you run screaming from the room in gay panic?”

“Because.”

 _“Because?”_ Ian giggles. “Because? That’s your actual comeback?”

“Because it’s _my_ fuckin’ place, and I’m comfortable, and I don’t wanna go anywhere right now.”

Ian continues smirking at him, “Okay, then why haven’t you just clammed up, and kicked me out with some snide remark, or not-so-clever put-down?”

“Hey, my put-downs can be pretty fuckin’ clever, A. And B, stop challengin' me to try and get rid of you, ‘cause it’s annoying as shit and it will eventually start to piss me off for realsies.”

Ian guffaws at that. “ _For realsies_? Jesus Christ, what has become of you? What have you done with actual Mickey Milkovich?” He holds his sides, trying to catch air.

“I like usin' incongruently cute, stupid phrases sometimes. It’s humorous, as you may have just noticed.”

“Fuck, please sign me up for a library card wherever you’ve been picking up all these vocabulary flourishes. It’s like you got a dime-store college education or some shit.”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t take any classes. We haven’t exactly covered every single thing that happened every single year we didn’t know each other between then and now.”

Ian just gives him a knowing look.

“Okay,” Mickey continues, “I never took any classes. What, you didn’t think I had it in me to be a self-taught fuckin’ genius if I wanted to?”

“Maybe not, but I would’ve been wrong apparently. I don’t know what I expected you to turn out like, but you’ve definitely surpassed anything I would’ve probly come up with back then. No offense.”

“Yeah, whatever, Gallagher. Keep underestimating me. That way I won’t stop surprisin' you.”

Ian looks him right in the eye again and swoops in to kiss his mouth softly. Mickey’s arms pull Ian’s body tighter against him, and he deepens the kiss, darting his tongue out to linger lazily against Ian’s.

“Yeah,” Ian declares when he pulls away, “we’re fucking doing this.”

Mickey smiles one of those rare, full, genuine smiles of his that he normally keeps stashed away for rainy days, and sighs resignedly, “Whatever you say, Ian.”

 

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to stay the course with this universe and make this 10 parts long. It will mainly focus on relationship "firsts." I know that's something that's been done many a time, but it's also something I feel like I want to paint with my own brush. After all, isn't that what fic obsession is ultimately about? Seeing the same basic plot points play out over and over again to give your OTP all the things you want them to have that you didn't really get with the actual show? Hopefully with a little nuance thrown into the mix of each story. I can't and won't promise any kind of time table. I spent over a month working on this 3 chapter story off and on, editing it a lot more than writing it. The other parts will most likely be shorter and single chapter though, taking place at different intervals of this new relationship, and can stand on their own within the AU. I've already skipped ahead and started writing Part 4 for some reason, because apparently I really wanted to write about their first fight, rather than their first date? Idk wtf. Lol. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, I'm too much of a loner: [The Violet Jones](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)


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